The Bringer of Peace
by Citizenjess
Summary: BoJack goes through the motions after Sarah Lynn's death.


Behold, another small passion project, aka a BoJack Horseman one-shot tackling the aftermath of Sarah Lynn's untimely death in season three. Hashtag still not over it 2k17. Takes place shortly following season three. Title is from Gustav Holst's instrumental piece, "Venus: The Bringer of Peace," the music playing during the infamous planetarium scene from "That's Too Much, Man!" Content warning: Frank discussion of a major character's death.

* * *

 **The Bringer of Peace**

* * *

Denial.

It's all a blur for several days, describing what happened to stoic-faced law enforcement officials and medical professionals, trying not to be irritated by the significantly more aghast reactions by Todd and Princess Carolyn and Mr. Peanutbutter and Diane, keeping his head down during his scant ventures into public. He'd thought himself an expert in politely grudging reactions to being recognized, but this is different. There's scorn infused with the curious stares now, unspoken - and sometimes, blatantly asked - questions as to his precise involvement in events.

The funeral service is all of this amped up ten decibels. Pointed glances, whispered conversations behind cupped hands; he's painfully aware of how many eyes are on him as he stands before the open casket, bleary eyed, unshaved, excruciatingly sober. Touching the corpse seems unnecessarily morbid, and so he resists reaching out to brush a fallen lock of limp, brown hair from her forehead.

She looks like she's sleeping if he squints. He makes himself keep his eyes fully open. Nonetheless, he reaches out, gripping the side of the casket. It's surprisingly brittle, probably plywood covered in thick satin (pink), and scared of alienating himself further by causing it to break, he forces his hands back down to his sides.

"I'm ... sorry." The words are whispered hoarsely. His voice breaks, but he doesn't cry. "I'm sorry, Sarah Lynn," he says again, and swallows against the faint tickle in his throat. "You ... you deserved better. I miss you. I love you. I'm sorry." He keeps his head down as he walks numbly back to his pew.

* * *

Anger.

He doesn't try to wiggle out of a meeting when Bradley proposes one. It's about the show, he assumes, about how he abandoned it, how he walked off set and ignored any and all communication up to and then during, well. Maybe he's getting sued. He honestly wouldn't know.

Bradley is cordial enough to him. BoJack decides that if it's a matter of paying him back for lost production wages from Ethan Around, he's prepared to cut a check. "I saw you at the funeral," Bradley tells him blandly. "You looked like you wanted to be left alone. I didn't want to bother you."

"You could have." A waitress comes by to take their order. "Whatever you need, let me know. Joelle, too. You know that, right, Brad?"

"Yeah," Bradley shrugs. "Sure. I mean, we could still do the show." He pauses to gauge the noncommittal expression on BoJack's face. "Did you know?" he asks quietly, after neither of them speak for a long moment.

BoJack stares down into his condensating glass of ice water. "Know what?"

"You know." Bradley's own expression takes on a slight edge. "When you walked out. Did you know you were going to do what you did? With Sarah Lynn? Did you think there wouldn't be any consequences? Or did you think it was going to be you instead?" When BoJack doesn't say anything, he adds, "Why are you here now? Because you feel guilty? How long is that going to last? And when it ends, how long until you pretend like coming to another meeting and throwing money at something is going to absolve you of guilt all over again?"

"It doesn't-" BoJack says, but Bradley mimics his response. His face is red. His anger is completely justified. "I don't know," BoJack admits. "I don't know. I didn't know. I still don't."

"Right," Bradley says, rolling his eyes. "This is just who you are, right? This is just what you do. If anyone cares, that's their problem, right?" BoJack says nothing. "You know what, I don't know why I came here." He grabs up his discarded blazer and stands, narrowly missing their waitress, who manages to salvage the tray of food balanced on one arm. "Joelle told me you were a lost cause," Bradley reveals, jabbing a finger at BoJack. "She said the best thing anyone can do now is pity you and then let you self-destruct from a safe distance. It's too bad I didn't listen to her. It's too bad Sarah Lynn had to learn that the hard way." He huffs. "But I know now. Goodbye, BoJack." He stalks out of the diner.

To her credit, the bovine waitress schools her face into polite passivity. "One check is fine," BoJack tells her. He places his credit card on the table. "Just give everything to a couple of hobos or something." He looks down at his cubeless water glass again. "Thanks. And sorry."

* * *

Bargaining.

The letter arrives without an address, but the Arizona postage in the upper right corner makes his heart skip a beat; in dread, in relief, he's not sure.

Likewise, there's no signature inside, but the handwriting, quick, thin, somewhat slanted, is identical to the Post-Its that used to adorn the cheap bathroom mirror and refrigerator door of his first Hollywood apartment - Charlotte used to keep track of possible gigs she thought he might be a good fit for, and the details she scribbled on square, brightly colored pieces of paper in those days were as good an "I love you" as anything.

There's a carefully creased news article included in the envelope, dated just over two weeks ago. "NINETIES CHILD STAR DIES FOLLOWING DRUG BENDER," the headline screams. He doesn't need to read any more. The accompanying letter is very short: "I heard. I'm sorry, BoJack. Take care, please."

He folds the letter inside the newspaper, which still smells like fresh print. He tucks the combination inside the top left desk drawer in his study, under a small pile of other papers. He knows he won't look in here again unless he needs to hunt up his dishwasher warranty or something. He leaves the room and closes the door.

* * *

Depression.

He doesn't drink these days, or smoke. He's still depressed, still spends more hours asleep than awake, but his demons are silent, allowing him to simply exist, blank, but unburdened with large amounts of existential angst. He's not sure whether that's a good thing or not.

He doesn't watch television, or listen to the radio, either. At one point, his fingers brush against the case of some of his well-worn Horsin' Around DVDs, lying in their near permanent spot atop his entertainment center. They even have their own dust impression. In the past, the familiar laugh track following formulaic, saccharine exchanges would be the perfect absurd backdrop to whatever blitzed mid-afternoon stupor he managed to work himself into. Today, he painstakingly ensures that all disks are accounted for and snapped into their respective spots in their cases, before placing the entire bundle in an empty corner of one of his media shelves.

Eventually, he begins flipping restlessly through his recent phone messages. Todd's checked in a few times, of course, though he's been keeping himself busy with Mr. Peanutbutter lately. His messages contain the kind of levity that is quintessential Todd. BoJack appreciates them for what they are, but doesn't respond to any.

Message from Diane. A short chain of messages, mostly questions, from Princess Carolyn. Message from Mr. Peanutbutter consisting entirely of a picture of himself overlaid, for some reason, with a dog face Snapchat filter that he strongly suspects was sent to him by mistake, or as part of a group Snapchat, or something. He knows if he goes into his e-mail, he'll find his brief exchange with Bradley to set up their ill-fated diner meeting, and even a short note from Kelsey, expressing her condolences. He hasn't responded to it. He probably won't.

His mother picks up on the second ring. "Hello, BoJack," she sighs, not entirely unfriendly. Seeming to know why he's called: "I'm sorry to hear about your friend. I know she stuck around for a long time. Longer than most."

BoJack nods, even though she cannot see him. "She shouldn't have," he admits. "She had options. She didn't have to align herself with someone so ... broken."

"Maybe she was broken, too." His mother's voice is matter-of-fact, neither smug nor regretful. "Maybe she was weak." The sounds of mutual breathing fill the space between them. "Well," his mother finally continues, "there's a performance of Hedda Gabler at the Pantages next month. Would you like to accompany me?"

BoJack startles a little. "Ibsen's no Horsin' Around," he murmurs. It's the closest he's come to genuine amusement for weeks. "I'll e-mail you the tickets."

"Make sure you get dinner reservations, too. No steakhouses. You know how I feel about steakhouses." He did.

* * *

Acceptance.

She's dead. She's gone.

He-

No. Not yet.


End file.
